Ли Чайлд - Belfast Noir

“Who might you be, son?” I was being watched by a white-haired man smoking a cig. He had tattoos all down both arms like a long-sleeved vest, if you could get a vest that was made of Celtic crosses and pictures of the Virgin Mary.

I knew immediately I was in the presence of Nasher himself, so I called on my detective training to blend in. “Just admiring the unusual signage, sir. Fascinating example of mural art.”

He stared at me. “You a fruit or something?”

“Eh, don’t think so, no.”

“Well, get on out of it. You’re attracting attention.”

I pedalled on, noting that Nasher had seemed quite hostile and reluctant to let anyone near the pub. Was Rosie being held there?

* * *

Every PI needs a computer expert in their corner. Did you know that nowadays over 90 percent of cases are solved online or by CCTV? That puts the amateur like myself in a wee bit of a bind. Luckily I have Gavin. I met him on the first day of primary school, when he’d dismantled his Etch A Sketch to see how it worked. He lives in his mum’s basement off the Lisburn Road—it’s got its own door, so it’s pretty cool really. He’s filled it with several computers so there’s always this sucking noise, and there’s no light, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind much of anything except when the wrong actors get cast in the films of his favourite comics.

“If the elves live forever, how do they die?” he said as I went in.

I quickly realised we were on Lord of the Rings . “Um, I think they just retire. What you working on?”

“Hacking into the Pentagon,” he said, taking a honk of his asthma inhaler. He had an open packet of Frosties on his knee and was scooping them up, spilling crumbs on his dinosaur T-shirt.

“Here, I brought you a sandwich. You need proper food.”

“What’s those funny green bits?”

“It’s called salad , Gav. It’s good for you.”

“Hmm.” He started picking the lettuce out, but ate the ham and bread.

“Rosie Grant,” I said. “Need to find her. Any ideas?”

“Background?”

“Subject is eighteen. Father is Harry Grant. Owns some tyre business.”

Already Gavin’s left hand was tapping as he ate the sandwich with the other. “Protestant?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. It’s all the same to Gavin, just a keystroke in a different column. “Royal Belfast Girls School?”

“That’s her.” I was impressed. He was already in her Facebook profile, a big smiling picture of her making the peace sign like girls do when they’re trying to be hippies, and lots of messages off other girls with smiley faces and bad spelling. “I need to know who might have taken her. She’s going out with Nasher Magee’s nephew.”

Even Gavin raised his eyebrows at that. “Where’d she even meet him?”

A good question. Gavin would make a useful assistant, if only he’d wear trousers more often.

“I’ll get you it all,” he said in a bored voice. “You want police records? Bank statements?”

“Er—only if it’s relevant. And don’t get arrested again, Gav.”

He sighed. “It’s not my fault if they won’t build proper firewalls around things.”

I decided it was time to check out Rosie’s friends, and thanks to the Internet I knew who to go to first.

* * *

It was child’s play to track down Chrissie, Rosie’s best friend according to Facebook. She put her entire life up there, so I knew she’d be leaving school at four p.m. after her first aid class. I recognised her blonde curls and short school skirt as I pulled up beside her on my bike with a bit of a screech, pretty cool.

“Chrissie Carr?”

She gave me the sort of look girls like her give to boys like me. “Who’re you?”

“Aloysius Carson, private eye.”

She chewed very slowly on her gum, showing the inside of her pink mouth. “Who?”

I explained Rosie’s mother had asked me to find her. “She’s been missing for several days.”

“I thought she was off with her fella, like.”

“Are you worried?”

“I dunno.” She seemed to think about it. “Should I be, like?”

“Her mother seems to think she’s in some danger.”

“You talk funny,” said Chrissie, wrinkling her nose. “Rosie is grand, I’m sure. She’s always going off with fellas. Here,” she added, looking me over, “what kind of name is Aloysius? You a Catholic too?”

For a moment I tried to think what she might want to hear—yes or no. “No,” I said, and she lost interest.

“Pity. It’d wind my da up something desperate. Tell Rosie to text me if you find her, all right?”

* * *

I cycled home through town, past City Hall and the shops. I like cycling, it helps me think. I like hearing the spokes go round and the whicka-whicka noise. I was going past the Opera House when I realised what Chrissie said didn’t make sense. Rosie was always going with boys? According to Mrs. Grant, John Joe was her first boyfriend. I smelled a rat, only it smelled like Impulse body spray and bubble gum.

At home, I chained up the Raleigh and let myself in. “Ma? Are there any Pot Noodles?”

She was hovering in the kitchen doorway. Behind her I could hear the theme tune of Coronation Street . “There’s someone to see you.”

A man rose up from the sofa—sitting in my office space, cheeky article. “Aloysius, is it?”

“It’s Mr. Carson,” I said coolly.

He laughed. “And I’m His Lordship Detective Sergeant Sam Taylor.”

A peeler. I kept my face the same. “And?”

“And you’ve been getting up the nose of some important people, son.”

It’s hard to be dignified with your ma standing there. “Thanks, Ma, could you let us have a moment, please?”

She sniffed. “Your shepherd’s pie’s almost ready.”

Taylor was still laughing as she shut the door. “I won’t stop. Just take this as a wee friendly warning. You don’t want to be snooping round certain pubs on the Falls Road anymore.”

“I don’t know to what you are referring.”

“I think you do. Now I don’t know what your business here is, and it’s fine by me if you want to play Number One Boy Scouts’ Detective Agency, but we’ve been watching Mr. Magee ourselves for quite some time, and we don’t need schoolkids getting in the way.”

“I’ve never been in the Scouts.”

“Keep it that way,” he winked. “What’s a wee fella like you doing with a detective agency anyway?”

“There aren’t any jobs. And there are lots of crimes the police can’t solve,” I said pointedly.

“Working on one at the minute?”

“I can’t say,” I said, thinking of Rosie. Her family wanted to keep the peelers out of it.

“You got a phone, Mr. C? Let me see it a wee minute.”

“I don’t have one,” I said, stalling for time. “I, eh . . . don’t believe in them.”

“Do you think I came up the Lagan in a bubble? Don’t make me use my stop-and-search powers, Aloysius.” He gave me a threatening look and I handed over the phone. It’s a smartphone—I convinced Ma I needed one as a legitimate business expense. He fiddled with it for a minute. “There’s my number. You find out anything you shouldn’t, you give me a wee phone.”

“How will I know if it’s something I shouldn’t?” I said sulkily.

“Just be prepared. Dib-dib-dib, son.” He patted my shoulder in a patronising way and left. How rude! I’d been out of school for five whole months.

I thought about what he said. Did this mean the PSNI were mounting surveillance on Nasher’s pub, maybe checking out his lucrative side industries of drug dealing, arms trading, and extortion? Surely they’d have seen Rosie if she was there. But then the Grants hadn’t reported her missing.